


Vacancy

by sugarboat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Borderline necrophilia ?, Implied Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, Implied Voyeurism, M/M, Mild CBT, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-03 17:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16330529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Peter Lukas introduces himself to the Archivist. Well, to the Archivist's body, at least.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't know how to tag this, but Peter molests Jon's body in the hospital, and that's basically the whole fic.

Outside the windows fog rolled in heavy drifts, a thick and wet, clinging thing, and it shrouded the nondescript landscaping of the private hospital Elias Bouchard was paying good money to have babysit a corpse. 

It was interesting. This whole- dead and not dead thing. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he did suppose it just figured. He’d been dying to meet the Archivist – one that had Elias concerned enough to start calling in his favors. Oh, part of it was the Unknowing, certainly, and as usual, all of Elias’ excuses held firm beneath inspection. It was just that subtle flightiness that came up when Peter broached the matter of repayment, a tight-lipped smile at Peter’s suggestion of where they might both take their pound of flesh. 

The Archivist – Jon – was perfectly still. The sheets draped across his chest unmoving, his limbs nearly pale as the bedding itself, a lovely kind of translucent in all those thin, vulnerable places. The crook of his elbow, the dip of his wrist, and it was a strange kind of wonder to press upon a point Peter knew should be beating and pulsing with life and find it still and cool to the touch. 

His skin was broken in places, stitched together in areas, pinned in others. All the same flat, lifeless color, without blood to well and drip between the gashes, nothing reddened and swollen and hot. A shame, really. Even the Archivist’s lips were brushed across with pallor, dry beneath his fingers but no less soft for it, giving and malleable in a way that even the freshest corpse couldn’t manage. 

“Well, Archivist,” Peter said. He took Jon’s chin in his hand and turned his face this way and that. “I had hoped for proper introductions, but I suppose those will just have to wait, won’t they?” 

Peter slipped his fingers between those lips and hooked them around the straight line of his teeth, pulling until the Archivist’s mouth opened. Even this part of him was cold to the touch, but blessedly wet – Peter didn’t bother to worry about the logistics of it. He just slid another finger in alongside the first two, watching the way Jon’s pretty, lax mouth welcomed the intrusion. 

“Doesn’t have to stop the two of us having a bit of fun.” 

Further, until the tips of his fingers brushed the entrance of his throat, soft and yielding, and then beyond, Peter’s palm wet with it before he withdrew, a breathy bit of laughter escaping him. No breath to worry over, no choking, coughing gags. It was almost taking the fun out of it, to have things so easy. He lightly slapped the side of the Archivist’s face, mostly to smear his own saliva across one of those bloodless cheeks. 

“You’re watching, aren’t you?” 

Peter didn’t really have to ask. He’d left a gap in the chilling press of the Lonely, just large enough for his old friend to slip an Eye through. There was a performative flourish to the way he yanked the sheets off Jon’s body, though he tossed them in a crumpled heap at the Archivist’s feet, careless of their state once they’d served their purpose. He lifted one of Jon’s arms, felt the dead, heavy weight of it before letting it drop with a quiet thump back to his side. 

No blood pooling anywhere, no blood circulating anywhere. Curious, really. And Peter considered Elias’ statement, such as it was. Nerve endings firing erratically, panickily perhaps. It would probably be too much to hope that any of this was reaching the Archivist wherever the interesting part of his body was. In those dreams of his (and that, too, made him smile, thinking fondly of the first one they’d practically gift-wrapped for the new Archivist, that it had been haunting his mind all this time, and there were so many more nightmares to give).

He would have to ask Elias. If his Archivist felt a phantom touch across his forearm, along the length of his bicep, the curve of his shoulder. If he felt the sudden shift of Peter snapping buttons open and yanking ties undone, if Jon felt bared, suddenly, newly, unexpectedly, as a great bloody Eye stared and stared and stared. 

Well, Peter could relate to that last bit quite nicely. Could feel its gaze practically burning, pinned between expanse of his shoulders. At the base of his neck, at a place where one quick, slicking motion could have him dead. Elias was never one for subtleties, if you knew how to look for them. 

“Am I really the one you want to be looking at right now?” 

There were bandages around the Archivist’s chest, but Peter made quick enough work of them. The staff were getting paid the same rate as ever for watching an unmoving body, surely they could stand to do a bit of actual work. Nothing really exceptional to look at it, save for the scars littered across the Archivist’s body, the thin cuts and glued together skin where debris must have been plucked from him. The delicate bulging of his bones against his skin. 

Peter ran his hands up and down the sides of Jon’s ribs, pausing when a slat of them gave a bit beneath his touch. Pausing and shoving, feeling bones grate and shift. If only the Archivist were awake to writhe and twist, lungs spasming in the fear of being punctured. Now, it wouldn’t even matter if Peter worked a pin between his ribs – nothing to collapse, he assumed. He did spare a moment to imagine the Archivist gasping in his first choked breath, one side of his lungs tight and unresponsive. 

Unresponsive being the word of the day. Even when Peter forced Jon’s legs apart, crooked and propped one to keep him splayed. There were more thin, surface level wounds peppering his skin here, but no bruising, no weeping tissues. Not even where one stretch of his thigh gave in under Peter’s hand, where some of his muscle felt to have been bluntly pulped. Wasted, unless this really was reaching the Archivist, on the far end of the tremulous string that must tie him still to this body. 

“I suspect we’re going to be working quite closely together,” Peter addressed the Archivist. “At least, while Elias is otherwise occupied. You didn’t have anything to do with that, now, did you?” 

He was stroking and kneading at Jon’s inner thighs while he talked, plucking at the stitches his fingers came across. Thumbing up and down the tears in his skin, one hard, forceful shove away from slipping inside him in a new way. It was a tempting thought, as Peter lined the edge of a nail against the lip of one gash, scratching at its length. 

“’Course you didn’t. You’re a good little Archivist, aren’t you?” He pressed harder, looked between the Archivist’s slack face and how the skin of his thigh indented around Peter’s fingers. “Anyway, you and I, Archivist; we should get to know each other.”

In a twisting motion, he’d wormed the tip of his thumb through a small gap in the stitches, and Jon’s rent tissue was just as cold and soft as the rest of him. Hardly any resistance at all as he slid his thumb in deeper, hooked it and tugged in a teasing motion. 

“I’m sure you’d agree with me if you could.” 

There was a thin, cool sheen of blood across his thumb when he pulled it free with a wet pop. He wiped it clean on Jon’s bunched up hospital gown. Peter had to bend down awkwardly to lower one side of the bedrails, and after planted a knee between Jon’s legs. Climbed onto the thin mattress and sturdy frame; arranged the Archivist’s legs to splay to either side of him and Peter pet along his hips, enjoying the mockery of intimacy. 

His skin crawled and itched below the gaze of the Eye. What was Elias doing now? Sitting ineffectual on his cot, seething at his own impotence. Hopefully. Palming at himself through his shitty prison garb, watching as everyone but him touched his Archivist. Peter wondered which Elias found more objectionable – his own perusal of the Archivist’s body, or the light, lingering touches he knew Martin Blackwood – surprising Martin Blackwood, unassuming and unpresuming - left Jon with. 

“And where are you, hmm?” 

Which dream was the Archivist trapped within, as Peter dragged his hands between his thighs and palmed roughly at his soft cock. In stark contrast to his own, which pressed up hard against the line of his zip. He jerked at Jon’s dick, huffing in amusement as the Archivist’s body remained, again, unresponsive. Still, he kept one hand at it. Peter hooked the fingers of the other around the Archivist’s balls and tugged, unsurprised but somehow disappointed when it prompted no gasping, no flinching, no breathy, terrified moans. 

Judging from the mess of scars alone – a hundred different entrance wounds, the smooth, warped flesh that twisted from his left hand up nearly to his elbow like licks of the lightless flame that had scarred him – Peter suspected that Jon might enjoy something like this. Or he could learn to like it, at Peter’s hands, which dragged his balls down and away from his body and then, with his palm, shoved them upwards, just shy of grinding them against Jon’s pelvis. 

And Elias could watch the whole process. He might even enjoy himself, perhaps learn a thing or two about taking his Archivist apart. 

“Remind me to ask if you enjoyed the show, Elias, next time I come round visitation hours,” Peter murmured, tightening his grip to a point that might be bruising, that if Jon were awake – aware, was any sort of fun at all – would certainly tip the ledger balance over to aching pain. “Maybe you can give me some suggestions for future performances.” 

One last twist of both hands and Peter finally released Jon. Set to work on freeing his own cock, loosely dragging a dry palm up and down its length. He pressed it against Jon’s flaccid cock and rolled his hips, before leaning forward and digging his teeth, deep and hard, into the side of the Archivist’s neck. Sucking and lapping at it while he rutted against Jon’s hips, though when he pulled free there was no lingering mark aside from the indentation of teeth in Jon’s skin. 

“Let’s hope that’ll keep, shall we? A nice gift to wake up with.” 

Another bit of awkward moving, but Peter positioned himself above the Archivist’s chest, had one hand dragging Jon’s mouth back open and the other steadying his cock as he shoved it inside. A shiver ran up his spine, from the tail of it to where Elias’ gaze continued to weigh heavy as a noose, piercing through him. Jon’s mouth was cold and velvet and wet, and Peter’s hips jerked but the angle wasn’t quite right and he could only pop the thick head of his cock into the Archivist’s throat. 

He’d practically been edging himself, playing with the Archivist the way he had. Peter ended up thrusting shallowly, just forcing himself into Jon’s throat and pulling back out before ramming himself in again. Enjoying the show of resistance for the scant second between Peter’s cock seeking entrance and the Archivist’s unconscious throat yielding around it, squeezing it tight and cold, so cold. He worked his right hand along the length of his cock he couldn’t fit, and pet and pulled at Jon’s hair with the other. 

Arousal wound itself unbearably tight and Peter withdrew, left just the head of his cock against Jon’s tongue as he jerked himself to completion. Sighing at the first thick spurt of come out of him into the Archivist’s mouth and yanking himself free, angling Jon’s face carefully as he painted it with his seed. Peter slumped back and squeezed at the base of his cock, dragging slowly upward and catching the last lingering threads of his release, smearing it across the top of Jon’s chest. 

“What do you think, Elias? Do you think he can choke, like this?”

Gently, he pushed the Archivist’s jaw back closed. He thought about Jon waking up, those dark lashes now pearled with clinging strands of white fluttering open (fixating that curious, ravenous gaze on whoever was at his bedside – Peter’d always had a weakness for eyes). Waking, straightening himself, and the first thing the Archivist would have to do would be to swallow a mouthful of come. The thought was enough to have Peter’s cock give a twitch. 

“I suppose that’ll be all for now,” Peter said. He stroked a thumb across the Archivist’s lower lip before righting his clothing and hopping off the bed. “I imagine we’ll be seeing plenty of each other, Archivist.”

It seemed dreadfully obvious what had happened in here, the Archivist’s hair disheveled, face a mess, limbs rearranged like a doll’s. There was even a drying slick of precome in the crease of his hip. Probably, it would be kinder to cover him, but there were other people to do things like that, and Jon was, afterall, everything except braindead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The self-indulgent aftermath.

“Martin went in after you left,” Elias told him later. Already on his knees, fog pressing close like a well-worn love. 

Peter knew that. He didn’t see it, but he felt the sharp, stinging stabs of the feral thing inside Martin’s chest. Unanswered longing, in all its steep angled beauty. He grinned with a fistful of Elias’ hair in one hand.

“Did he really? Such an interesting collection you’ve amassed for yourself, Elias.

“Did you watch him? Clean up your Archivist?” 

The answer was obvious, so Peter dragged Elias onto his cock. Didn’t bother with moving his hips, just guided Elias’ mouth down and down and down, and held him there. 

“I did this just for you, you know,” Peter commented. “Can you taste him? Your Archivist, that is. All over my cock.”

Elias’ gaze rose slowly, eyes bright with irritation. 

“Oh, I know you won’t be touching him any time soon, will you? It’s the least I could do for you. Really.” 

Now he rolled his hips, groaning when Elias swallowed around him, a laugh startled out of him when he felt teeth do just a little more than caress the base of his cock. He gripped Elias’ hair tight and wrenched him off his cock. It wasn’t easy to rile him up, but it always quite a sight. A flush to his cheeks, a sneer to his lips, breathing quick and controlled - reigns held fast in a clenched fist. 

“You shouldn’t have,” Elias drawled, but there was a radiant emptiness in his chest, too, where the Lonely clawed his god’s eye out, or perhaps it was always there, deadened and waiting for someone to come scratching at its scar. 

“Don’t think anything of it, Elias, I insist,” Peter said. He fed Elias his cock again, and was only partially thinking about something cold and yielding around him instead. “No thanks are necessary – I think we’re well beyond that, don’t you? Just, consider it another favor.” 

The cuffs around Elias’ wrists rattled, and he stared up at Peter, oddly unblinking. Ceaselessly watching, Peter supposed, feeling the weight of something heavy nearby. Feeling the tipping of scales, back and forth. 

“Believe me,” Peter said as he shoved a booted foot forward, between Elias’ thighs. “I’m enjoying this while it lasts. You should too.” 

He eased up enough to let Elias huff out an unimpressed breath. Elias dipped himself back down on Peter’s cock, and ground his own against Peter’s leg.

Above them, the fogged skies parted like an eye opening, and Peter laughed at the throbbing ache in his own chest as Elias’ eyes slipped closed, and laughed around his question, and choked Elias’ answer on his cock when he told Peter what the Archivist was dreaming, now.


End file.
